


Hook, Line and Sinker

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Modern Fantasy, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose's mother buys a house on a pretty stretch of beach and insists that the two stay there for a while. Rose is indifferent and tries to make the best of the trip by hanging around the shoreline at high tide, not knowing that she's caught the attention of a lovely aquatic creature until said creature insults her taste in literature. What do mermaids even know about good books, anyway?</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Fill for the HSWC Bonus Round 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hook, Line and Sinker

**Author's Note:**

> ahh yes, the cliched human-and-mermaid-passive-aggressively-vye-for-each-other's-attention au. kanaya sure would make a pretty mermaid. 
> 
> fill for this prompt: http://hs-worldcup.dreamwidth.org/19475.html?thread=5121811#cmt5121811

There's a stereotype that exists of rich people that they make a lot of impulse purchases. Every once in a while they feel the need to flaunt their wealth, as if to passive-aggressively remind the world around them how rich they are. They don't consider treating themselves to some overpriced coffee or picking up that cute sweater that caught their eye at Old Navy your standard "impulse purchase", either. No, they'll splurge on something as extravagant as a 20-foot-tall granite wizard statue without batting an eyelash, or perhaps decide to buy a $15,000 frame for something their child drew and have it welded to their refrigerator.

You've grown to believe that the stereotype is true-- at least, it is in your mother's case. Her most recent "impulse purchase" was a beach house, which was one of her less outlandish ones, surprisingly enough. Apparently she needed to work on her tan, and now she had a great place to do so in the summertime. Unfortunately, it's not summer. It's the middle of winter and your mother is an absolute madwoman. In fact, you're certain that the only reason she dragged you along for some "mother-daughter bonding time" was in another backhanded attempt to make you miserable. The very thought makes you roll your eyes.

Predictably, it only took her a few days and some wine to forget about you completely, so you do what any adventurous and bored 13-year-old would and decide to get familiar with this new environment. You can begrudgingly admit that the beach is pretty here, and that Mom picked a good spot, at least. It's sunny today. The glittering white sand is strewn with colorful shells and pebbles up to the shoreline. Waves lap at the shore as the sunlight dances across them, illuminating large rocks and little tidepools. It's almost calmingly peaceful, and even if you resent your situation, you suppose you can at least take some time to appreciate the scenery.

\---

The first time that you realize there's something unusual about your location is a few days later, after the tide has risen to just a few meters below the steps of the beach house's front porch. By then, you'd found that it's rather nice to sit under an umbrella with your writing journal or some knitting at hand, close enough to the icy water that you could reach out and touch it if you wanted to. 

You're getting close to the conclusion of your next chapter in _Complacency of the Learned_ , and have long since lost track of time. It's only when the sunset bathes you in a soft golden light and your mother calls you inside for dinner that you bother to look up. You could ignore her, but you're hungry, so you figure you'll just take your food outside with you and get back to work. As you stand and dart up the steps and into the house, you leave your journal open on your towel with the pen lying off to the side.

Once you open the door, you hear a soft splash near where your towel is. Upon closer investigation, you see that your journal has been closed and is slightly damp. Perturbed by this, you frown and flip through it, only to find a small note in the bottom corner of the page you wrote in most recently. It's sloppy and hastily scrawled, but legible enough for you to detect the biting criticism that the writer must have intended to convey.

"This Work Is Dull And The Character Development Is Awful Youre Not Impressive"

You frown and narrow your eyes at the note, then look up and scan the surrounding area. The stretch of beach is relatively open, so there aren't many places any potential nosy tourist could be hiding. Then you get up and walk up and down the shoreline several times just to be sure, but find nothing. It makes you equally curious and frustrated, and you're determined to get to the bottom of it. 

This marks the point where your vacation gets really interesting. 

\---

Your first experiment is to find out whether this incident was simply some passerby's idea of a prank, or if you're being deliberately targeted. The perpetrator could very well be your mother, for all you know. You wouldn't put such a vile deed past her. Besides, who comes to the beach in the winter?

The next morning, you sneak into your mother's room while she's out and dig up the trashiest smut novel you can find. You tape a note to the cover that reads, "To my anonymous reader- your critique is appreciated, and I went to great lengths to find something that I'm sure is better suited to such unique and cultured tastes as yours." With a satisfied smirk, you head out to the beach again to set up your towel, then leave the new book and your pen in the same spot you'd left your journal the previous evening. You don't bother with the umbrella, as the sky is overcast and gray. Really, the air is chilly enough that you shouldn't be outside without a jacket or something.

Once the bait is set up, you head back inside to wait for a bite. 

You spend several minutes peeking carefully through the blinds in one of the windows facing the shore, determined to crack this case. You're not sure what you're expecting, but it certainly isn't what you actually get.

A girl's head appears from behind one of the large rocks near the coast, and the movement is enough to catch your eye. Her hair is short and dark, her skin a lovely shade of caramel and her features defined enough to make you think she must be around your age. After cautiously surveying the beach for a minute or two, she emerges from behind the rock and slowly swims toward the shore, everything but her head remaining underwater until she's a few feet away from land. 

When she breaches the surface, you stare and wonder if you've finally gone insane. She's wearing absolutely nothing on her top half, which allows you to note the odd slits in the sides of her neck and torso. They flare out for a few seconds to reveal that they're little green flaps that are part of her skin. _Gills_. That's not even the weirdest part; the skin at her waist and below her navel meld into shimmering jade scales, and a long fish tail drags behind her as she wriggles a foot or two over to your towel to examine what you left her.

You've unwittingly become witness to the existence of a mermaid, and you have no idea how to react. Shock? Excitement? Intrigue? Eyes wide with interest, you continue to observe the creature as she reads the note you left on the novel's cover. She raises an eyebrow, then rubs the water droplets and sand coating her strangely webbed hands off on your towel and picks the book up. 

There's something oddly satisfying about watching the way her expressions change the more she reads. Her nose crinkles in what you assume is fascinated disgust, her lips curling to expose a set of pearly, too-sharp teeth. After a few minutes she appears quite disgruntled, and closes the book, shaking her head to herself and reaching for the pen. The emerald webbing between her long and graceful-looking fingers is slight enough for her to hold it, albeit a bit clumsily. She flips the note over to the blank side and starts to write something, her brow furrowing and her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration. It occurs to you that she's endearing in an unconventional sort of way, and that thought makes you giggle to yourself, your movement rustling the blinds.

Then her head suddenly snaps up and turns in your direction, staring straight at you with wide and shockingly green eyes. Startled, her gills ruffle up and she begins to scramble backwards. You swear under your breath and hurry to the door, not wanting her to leave just yet, but by the time you reach the front porch she's gone with little more than a flash of iridescent jade. 

Disappointed, you move to pick up your book and see what she wrote. 

"Oh Dear If All Human Literature Is This Terrible I Dont Think I Want To See Any More"

The ink leaves a trail at the end of the last word, which was probably where you shocked her into dropping the pen and fleeing. There are a lot of questions you want to ask, and you know that you won't be able to if you can't get her to come back. 

\---

She doesn't return for a few days. You wait dutifully by the shore on your towel, camped out under your umbrella the in the same manner you were last time. You eat out there, sitting with your writing journal and staring aimlessly out at the sea as if waiting for inspiration to come to you. An uncanny case of writer's block has befallen you, and while you think you know why, you don't want to admit it to yourself. 

Maybe it was only a dream. You're starting to question your own mental stability when you become so bored that you bring your knitting out to your spot and begin knitting a sweater. You can sit around and wear it during all the time you spend not swimming, since it's too damn cold.

But when you look up again, she's there, several meters from the edge of the shore with her bright eyes locked on you and only the top half of her head peeking out of the water. 

Without thinking, you blurt, "I've been waiting for you."

She blinks a couple of times, and the rest of her head rises above the waves. If you were better acquainted with mermaid behavioral patterns you might have thought that she looked smug as she nodded, replying smoothly in an accent you can't place.

"I know. I've been waiting for you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> i could have probably expanded more on this but ehhh. this is yet another good idea that i'll probably never make much out of oops


End file.
